The scent of alcohol, vomit, and wreaking sweat; that was the smell of the cantina.

The sounds of laughter, shouting, cheering, breaking glasses, and distant thumping as people fought; that was the sound of the cantina.

Yet despite his greatest of reservations, Slate still had to come here to conduct his planning, since he lacked a formal 'hideout', and this was one of the 'better' cantinas when it came to it's patrons being less rowdy, and the food actually being half-decent.

Slate sat at a booth table, that, from his frequent visits to this particular cantina, had unofficially, 'officially' become his booth, as every patron had learned not to infringe on that particular booth while he was, at the least, present.

As the ex-Imperial Knight sat staring at the empty booth seat opposite of himself, he probed the crowd with the Force, feeling for any threats, or particularly 'different' people. Most were drunks, gamblers, or those who wanted to remain, and even look - almost to a fault, nondescript. It was all normal, except...

"Hm?" The Assassin barely uttered to himself as he felt the new, non-drunk presences enter the cantina. They were far different from anyone who he normally felt, far more like himself, in the sense that they had a stronger connection to the Force from what he could tell. And they felt, familiar, almost eerily so. Slate straightened up in his seat, maneuvering himself around to see who these newcomers were.

"But in you...I see the potential to see the Force die, to turn away from its will..."
"You are beautiful to me, exile. A dead spot in the Force, an emptiness in which its will might be denied."
"But no Jedi ever made the choice you did. To sever ties so completely, so utterly, that it leaves a wound in the Force..."
"I would have killed the galaxy to preserve you...You are more precious than you know..."-now...it's verbatim!-A quote from Darth Traya (Kreia)